


between the lines

by polkadot



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, Hidden Talents, M/M, Subtext, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five hidden talents Benoit Paire didn’t possess, and one he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between the lines

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [November 2013 edition](http://chair-umpire.livejournal.com/27617.html) of [netcord](http://netcord.livejournal.com/).

~//~

_i. cooking_

“I’m an excellent cook,” Benoit says, confidently. “I beat you in that cookoff in Chennai.”

Stan raises an eyebrow. He remembers that cookoff. One, he’s pretty sure that Ben was flirting with the judges, so that could have prejudiced the result right there, and two, he’s pretty sure in retrospect that Ben’s flirting distracted Stan himself from paying proper attention to his own efforts.

Benoit sails on without paying attention to the eyebrow. “How hard can one little romantic dinner by candlelight be?”

Stan keeps his own counsel.

~

When he gets back from training, the kitchen is full of smoke. Benoit, glum and coughing, protests that he only got distracted for ‘one minute’.

They order takeout and fight over the last piece of pizza instead. (And even if it isn’t by candlelight – the smell of smoke still lingering about the kitchen has put both of them off candles for the moment – Stan thinks it’s still pretty nice. Although Benoit has pizza sauce on his cheek. And slightly singed eyebrows.)

~//~

_ii. magic_

“Don’t laugh at me!” Benoit says, his face the picture of mortal offense.

“It’s just,” Stan says, indicating the book Ben’s reading, “ _Magic for Dummies_? Really?”

Benoit curls his feet up under him on the chair and tries to look lofty. “I’ll have you know that Julien says I have a great natural talent.”

“For magic,” Stan says, meaningfully. “Julien says you have a great natural talent for magic.”

Benoit glares at him. 

~

As much as Benoit practices, however – in between distractions; Benoit is not someone who sticks to one thing at a time very well – his skill with the card tricks in Julien’s magic book never seems to improve very much.

“I don’t know why it’s not working,” Benoit says, woefully, staring at the card he’s pulled out of the deck as if he can change its face by sheer willpower. “Are you _sure_ this wasn’t your card?”

For a moment, Stan almost lies, just to see his face light up, but untruths are never a good idea in a relationship. Particularly when they might lead to your partner deciding to move on to rabbits in hats. “I’m sure.”

“But Julien said I had such good fingers for it,” Benoit mourns.

Stan clears his throat. “I think you have good fingers too. Maybe not for magic. But for other things.”

“Was that an eyebrow?” Benoit asks, suspiciously.

~//~

_iii. striptease_

“You just lie there,” Benoit says, shoving him spread-eagled down on the bedclothes.

Stan, while not being averse to this plan exactly, nonetheless likes to know what’s going on. “What are you planning now?”

“Shhh,” Benoit says. “You’ll ruin my flow.”

“Your flow?” Stan asks, but subsides when Benoit looks pointedly at him.

Benoit fiddles with his laptop, apparently forgetting to un-mute it at first, but eventually gets things situated. He grins at Stan, before hurriedly rearranging his face into what looks like a mildly constipated expression.

“Prepare,” he says, sounding like he’s just recovered from a case of the whooping-cough, “to be amazed.”

~

Stan’s amazed all right. 

“Stop laughing,” Benoit says, poking him in the side.

“I’m not laughing,” Stan pants into the pillow. “Not laughing. You were very … impressive.” 

(It’s not lying. ‘Impressive’ can mean many things. Like ‘interesting’. Which that particular performance had also been. Also, it’s not lying if the other person doesn’t believe you for a second.)

“Was it the music?” Benoit asks, flopping down on the pillow next to him. “I thought I’d start with an old classic, but maybe ‘I’m Too Sexy For My Shirt’ was too corny? Or was it the hip shimmy? Everything online said the hip shimmy was a great choice.”

Stan raises his head from the pillow, fighting back his grin. Benoit’s sheepishly smiling at him, though, so it’s probably okay. “C’mere,” he says, reaching for him.

“Maybe,” Benoit says, contemplatively, as he clambers on top of Stan, keeping his bony knees considerately out of Stan’s ribs, “it’s just a skill that comes with practice. I could work on it.”

“I think,” Stan says, drawing him down, “that I can think of a much better place for you to use that hip shimmy.”

“Lech,” Benoit says, affectionately, and kisses him.

~//~

_iv. matchmaking_

“Oh please,” Benoit says, waving his hand.

Stan glances over at the other side of the locker room. “Nico and Jo? _Really_?”

“I see these things,” Ben says, airily. “They’d be great for each other. Nico has a wacky sense of humor, and Jo’s got a clever one. They’d always be able to make each other laugh. They won’t compete against each other very much, since Nico’s mostly in doubles, but they’d still be at most of the same tournaments. They both speak the same language, obviously, and they both have shared hobbies.”

“By shared hobbies you mean tennis?” Stan asks.

“Other things too,” Benoit says, vaguely. “Besides, I saw Nico checking Jo out the other day.”

“Everyone checks Jo out,” Stan says. “Even the straights.”

Benoit ignores that. “I have a clever plan.”

~

“So,” Stan says, sinking down onto the bench next to Benoit, your clever plan was what exactly?”

Ben still looks a bit shell-shocked. But then, an irate Richard Gasquet in your face is a bit of an experience. “I only told Jo that Nico told me he wished he had a body like Jo’s.”

“Ah,” Stan says.

“How was I to know he was dating Richie?” Benoit asks, grimacing. “If people bothered to _tell me things_ …”

“I think Richie just told you,” Stan says, trying to keep a straight face and patting Ben on the knee. 

“And why did he think _I_ was hitting on Jo?” Benoit wails. “I _distinctly_ said it was Nico.”

Stan purses his lips. “Well.” How do you say, ‘sweetheart, you have a bit of a reputation for flirting with everything that moves’? “They might have checked with Nico.”

Benoit looks a little pacified. “I guess. Richie didn’t have to talk to me like that, though. He has to know that I’m entirely devoted to you.”

“Come on,” Stan says, reaching out a hand to pull him upright. “Let’s go get something else you’re entirely devoted to. It’ll cheer you up.”

“Burger King?” Ben asks, his face alight, failed foray into matchmaking already forgotten.

~//~

_v. writing letters_

“What are you doing?” Stan asks, after the fourteenth time Benoit swears and crumples up a piece of paper.

He can’t remember the last time he saw Benoit actually use paper, beyond the ubiquitous practice signup sheets that appear at every tournament. They’re both thoroughly addicted to their phones and laptops. He’s actually not entirely sure what Benoit’s handwriting looks like, apart from the careless scrawl of his autograph.

(He knows what that careless scrawl looks like because of the many times people have asked for their autographs when they’re out for dinner together, or practicing together, or just exploring a city together. Not because of that one night where Benoit scrawled it all over his upper legs, careful to keep it where it’d be covered by his shorts, kissing every curl and slash.)

Benoit hunches over the paper, protectively. “Nothing.”

“Your innocent voice needs work,” Stan informs him, grinning down at his own laptop.

“Oh, shut it,” Benoit says, casually flipping him off and going back to whatever it is he’s doing.

~

The envelope sitting demurely in his locker on top of Stan’s spare shoes is a mystery. It could be a letter from a fan – sometimes they send them to tournaments where they know he’ll be. But usually the tournament director holds those and gives them to him in one big stack; this one’s all on its own. Or perhaps it’s an invitation to someone’s gala – now that Stan’s in the top ten, he gets invited to all sorts of things these days. But he doesn’t think anyone’s having a gala this week; usually that gets mentioned in conversation. 

He picks it up. His name is on the front, in excessively curly writing, all flourish and fanfare.

 _dear Stan_ (it reads)  
 _I thought I’d tell you that you’re pretty perfect. I like your backhand and I like your back end. I like the way you smile at everything, and the way you smile at me differently than anybody else. Your sunscreen looks ridiculous, let’s be real here, but I even like it. I like the way I can beat you at video games, and I like the way your nose wrinkles when you laugh. You’re kind of fantastic, and that’s obviously proven by your fantastic taste in boyfriends.  
p.s. and by boyfriends, I mean ‘boyfriend’ in the singular, because I’d better be the only one, mister._

~

“Oh,” Stan says, pausing, “I forgot to tell you. I got the oddest letter in my locker today. Except I couldn’t read it, it was all scribbles.”

Benoit rolls his eyes.

“I blame the French school system,” Stan says, thoughtfully, resting his chin on Benoit’s stomach. “It obviously doesn’t teach proper handwriting.”

“As if the Swiss are any better,” Benoit says, all breathless indignance. (Stan may have chosen a wicked moment to broach this subject.)

Stan grins and reaches over for the Sharpie he’d stashed on the table. “I’ll have you know,” he says, ghosting the pen over Ben’s hip as Ben wriggles underneath him, “that the Swiss system runs like clockwork.”

His name stands out dark against Benoit’s skin. Stan blows on it to dry it, and Benoit shivers underneath him, the hand in Stan’s hair stilling for a moment and then tightening.

“And,” Stan says, looking up and meeting Ben’s eyes, “I’ll have you know that my sunscreen doesn’t look ridiculous in the slightest.”

“Does too,” Benoit says, immediately, only to cut himself off with a gasp as Stan resumes his earlier activity.

~//~

_i. dancing_

Benoit leans back in his chair and belches.

“Very attractive,” Stan says, beginning to gather up the dishes.

He cooked, this time – he’s good at cooking, and he’s never even set off a smoke alarm. Benoit always promises to do the dishes in return, but somehow they usually end up doing them together, Benoit washing and Stan drying. Often Stan gets the bonus of being flicked with a wet washcloth, because Ben hasn’t ever grown up completely.

“I’ve heard,” Benoit says, tipping his chair and lacing his hands together behind his head, “that it’s the best compliment you can give a chef.”

“This chef prefers ‘thank you’,” Stan says, dryly, and begins to stack the dishes by the sink.

He’s interrupted by the press of a warm body against his back, by the spread of fingers across his hipbones. “Thank you,” Benoit murmurs into his neck, the prickle of his beard doing things to the pit of Stan’s stomach.

Stan swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “Get a washcloth, you big smoozer.”

Benoit laughs, the sound rich in Stan’s ear. “Not yet.”

~//~

“The food is going to dry on the dishes and be the devil to get off,” Stan points out, logically.

Benoit’s grin, though, is melting even Stan’s disapproval. He’s lit the candles from the ill-fated candlelight dinner, and turned on some music. (Thankfully not the same as the striptease.) His eyes glint in the low light, and against his better judgement Stan finds himself leaving the sink and stepping into the circle of Ben’s arms.

“Dancing by candlelight?” he asks, but finds his tone rather softer than he’d intended.

“I think you’ll find,” Benoit says, loftily, “that I’m rather good at it.”

“Magic in your feet?”

That comment gets him pulled closer, and Stan finds his breath coming a little faster. 

Stan doesn’t know how to dance, but Benoit does. They sway together by the dinner table, the candlelight flickering, pressed close, and Stan has to fight the urge to drop his head to Benoit’s shoulder. They’re not overly sentimental; they joke with each other, they’re sarcastic, they tease and play-fight and wrestle in bed. Now that he has it, Stan doesn’t want to imagine a world without Benoit’s dirty clothes strewn across his floors, Benoit’s bony limbs poking him in bed, Benoit’s laughter embedded in his days - but neither can he imagine saying that in so many words.

But if words are beyond him, perhaps actions aren’t.

He gives in and drops his head to Benoit’s shoulder, nestling his face against Ben’s neck, tightening his arms around Ben’s back. 

Benoit’s beard scratches, and then he breathes in, whisper of air, and one hand comes up to cup the back of Stan’s neck, the other pressed to the curve of his waist, guiding him to the music.

“Ben,” Stan says, feeling Benoit’s skin under his lips.

“What?”

His voice sounds slightly hoarse, and Stan smiles, letting the smile turn into a caress. “You’re pretty good at this dancing thing.”

“You know me,” Benoit says. “I’m super talented. I have all sorts of talents you don’t even know about.”

Cherished close in Benoit’s arms, Stan thinks about the past weeks, of all Benoit’s silly ‘talents’ and what lay beyond them. If Stan finds it easier to speak in actions rather than words, perhaps Ben does too. 

“Yes,” he says, and feels Benoit’s fingers tighten in his jumper. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”

~//~

_epilogue_

“If you keep signing your name on me you’re going to have to start charging me for autographs,” Benoit says, laughing.

Stan blows on Benoit’s chest to dry the ink.

“Also,” Benoit says, the littlest frown appearing between his eyebrows, “I’m not going to be able to take my shirt off now.”

“It’s winter,” Stan points out. “Shirtless training isn’t really necessary.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Benoit says, fussily, and then glances down at what Stan’s written.

“I thought,” Stan says, into the sudden silence, “that maybe someone should finally say it.”

As if Benoit hasn’t been saying it between the lines for weeks now; as if Stan’s heart hasn’t been saying it every time Benoit smiles at him with those trickster eyes alight. As if it hasn’t been implicit in so much, so that it almost doesn’t need to be said – and yet it does, because once you’ve realized it, you find it almost impossible not to shout it from the rooftops.

Benoit grins up at him. “Technically, you haven’t said anything. Writing it doesn’t count.”

“You’re a terror,” Stan says, and leans down to kiss him.

“You love me anyways,” Benoit says, against his lips, and kisses him back.

And Stan does.

He’s written it down, hasn’t he?

~//~


End file.
